Page 102 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Eyes closed, he nodded.

Lips curling against her teeth, she gripped the knife and pressed.

Flesh sizzled. Mr. Sloane’s agonized roar rang in her ears and her soul. Sinews stood out on his neck and sweat gleamed on his chest. Seconds passed, an eternity. She tossed the knife, mortified at the blistering flesh on his arm, but the wound was sealed. She slathered on the soothing unguent and wrapped a clean brown-and-white-checked kitchen towel around it. She tied the knot, and Alexander flopped on his back, pulling the blanket to his chest.

“Take heart, my Jacobite goddess. You were fierce and quick-thinking tonight. A brave, brave woman.”

“But the muster roll was destroyed. We have no evidence.”

“What we have is definitive information.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Facts are like abread crumb trail. You follow it until you have what you need to file charges.”

She stripped off her coat in frustration.

“You don’t seem bothered at all that we were shot at, and you wounded, and both of us almost swept out to sea.” She lobbed her coat and attacked her stockings. “All that? For one bread crumb of information?”

Mr. Sloan’s sleepy, grumbly voice slayed her.

“Only one thing angered me... you nearly drowning. I feared I’d lose you forever.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Is this how you’re taking luncheon now? Laid out on your salon floor?” The voice was Jenny’s.

Cecelia cracked open a sleep-crusted eye. A blur of petticoats stood in the doorway.

“Jenny... Is that you?”

“I should hope so. Who else cooks your food?” A disgruntled pause and, “Though someone’s been messing about my kitchen and left dirty dishes.”

Alexander was adrift in sleep. Jenny stepped into the salon, a basket at her side. She was scowling like a disapproving nursemaid at piles of damp clothes exuding questionable odors, an open bottle of brandy, and her naked mistress stumbling from a makeshift bed on the floor. Cecelia slid from the warm cocoon and snatched another blanket to cover herself. Her salon was absurd theater. Dried blood spotted the floor and dirty footprints were hither and yon, along with a stack of brown-and-white-checked linens. And the knife.

Jenny toed the blade. “I won’t ask what happened here.”

“You are, as always, the soul of discretion.”

The maid harrumphed. “This is more than your usual tricks, miss.”

Cecelia sniffed the air teased by whiffs of fresh baked floury goodness.

“What do you have there?”

“Oh, nothing but some eggs and cream.” Jenny was coy, lifting a corner of the towel on her basket. “And a dozen of Morag’s crumpets. Made this morning.”

“And her blackberry jam?”

“Of course, miss. Only a dunderhead would serve dry crumpets.”

“Bless you.” She scurried to her settee and patted the low table. “Bring them here.”

“What? No plates? You haven’t gone wild these past two days, have you?”

“She’s a veritable Amazon.” Alexander was awake, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Mouth puckering, Jenny planted a hand on her hip.

“I see you’ve returned. Lookin’ worse for the wear with my kitchen towel on your arm.”

He propped himself up on one elbow and managed a lazy morning smile. “I hope you’re not planning to gut me. I am a wounded man.”